Hogwarts: Never Ending
by rosebud1000
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for the Hogwarts Competition. 2: It's Elizabeth Wren's first time interviewing for the Daily Prophet. Her assignment? Mr. Xenophlius Lovegood. What an adventure.
1. Father Would be Proud

**Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Challenges and Assignments) Assignment #2.**

 **Class: Psychology**

 **Task: Write about a child demonstrating learned behavior from an adult or role model**

 **1\. (Character) Draco Malfoy**

 **2\. (Word) Model**

 **Also written for Hogwarts Birthday: Jenga**

 **Prompt: (Word) Expectation**

 **Word Count: 1,024**

 **Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.**

* * *

"Mudblood."

The chaos that followed my words - no, word - was immediate. Of course I knew it was an insult, but I hadn't even swore. They didn't need to be so uptight about it. It wasn't that bad. The girl was a Mudblood, and so why not call her one? Father would be proud. Father loved the word "Mudblood." He treated it like a word that's so perfect for the situation and you want everyone to hear you say it so they know you're not just some stupid second year.

I don't even remember the first time I'd heard someone say it. It was just as much a part of my vocabulary as my name. It's always been a part of me. When I was little, I would misuse it in a sentence and have to be corrected. Mum always frowned when this happened, like maybe she'd have liked me to learn it when I was older. But Father made sure I knew what it was, and how when people take such offense to it it's just because they want to be a pureblood like us.

Father also says I need to teach the blood traitors our ways. I need to model for them how to be a pureblood, and how to use your superiority. But the Weasleys just don't seem to budge. Some of them even attacked me when I called Granger a Mudblood. Like they should care about the poor stuck-up. The second year one tried to cast a spell at me, and the idiot shot it back at himself, and started barfing slugs. Serves him right for standing up for the Mudblood.

Mudblood. I decided that I like the word. It rolled off my tongue, the first syllable contained near my lips, rolling back to meet the "L" and forward again to finish. It wasn't the kind of word you said quickly, to get over with having to say it, like the ugly-sounding "Gryffindor," crunching the "r's," and growling out the middle. No, Mudblood was a word to say slowly, a little treasure at the tip of my tongue. If painted, it would be a globbly sort of green, like how I imagined the bottom of the lake. Nasty, slimy, but all the same, beautiful.

Now, sitting in a chair in the Slytherin common room, basking in the green light cast through the shadows of murky water, I said it aloud.

"Mudblood." Such a beautiful word. I'm sure I'll never tire of saying it.

* * *

I hold the wand tight in my hand, trying to stop it from shaking. Just two words. Just two simple words. This is the reason I am here. Now, it's more than a game of coaxing others to say the word "Mudblood," let it roll off their tongues like it does mine. Now, I have to speak the harsh, jagged, phrase that could kill me. But at the same time, it will keep me alive. I know I'm supposed to savor these words, like I do "Mudblood," that Father will be so proud, more proud than the first time I called someone a Mudblood, even more proud than when I helped bring down Dumbledore's Army.

But still. The words don't feel right to say, and I'm afraid if I let them tumble from my mouth, I'll find my wand to have shaken, moved toward the wrong person. These words are red and green, but far from being like Christmas. The sharp consonants threaten to pound on my teeth, but the "A" has barely formed before it is spoken by another.

"Avada Kedavra." And then the one I was meant to kill is falling, falling, toward the ground, and the chaos is unbelievable. But all I can think is that my job was taken. I feel a hand grab at my neck, guiding me down the tower, but my legs feel numb, my wand and arm limp at my side. _My job was taken._ How dare he. After all I did to plan, to ready myself for success, I have failed. Because of him. He puts up a Shield Charm, and the dueling partners around us move, letting us through.

I try to break through the charm, but it's too strong. I don't even bother trying to curse it out of my way, anything I cast at it would bounce back at me, I'm sure. Snape fires a jinx at Longbottom, who doubles over in pain, clutching his stomach. I can hear shouting behind us, a voice that may be Potter's in the distance, but he won't catch up to us. We make into the grounds, and now Potter is closing in on us. Snape finally lowers the Shield. Potter aims a spell at Snape, but misses, nearly blasting me instead.

"Run, Draco!" Snape shouts at me, now thrusting me away from him. And I do. Past the flaming hut, through the dark trees, not sure of where I am going. Eventually, I make it back to the castle, though I don't know how. I streak past the doors, through the entrances hall, and turn up the marble staircase.

Wait. Why am I going up here? I make a sharp turn back down, and again out of Hogwarts. I find a place to hide among the rubble, to process the last ten minutes of my life. I wasn't able to do what Father is able to do. Snape had to do it for me. _But I could have,_ I tell myself. _He didn't give me enough time. No,_ I realise sadly. I couldn't have. I'm almost grateful that Mum made the Vow. Now, at least, Snape will have to make sure the Dark Lord doesn't kill me. But I've still been such a disappointment to Father. I haven't lived up to his expectation.

Suddenly, a jet of green light streaks by, dangerously close to me. I hurry to stand. It looks like I might have to join the fight, which is the last thing I want to do. I run back towards the Forbidden Forest, where no duelers have gone, casting a few jinxes at a Death Eater's opponent.


	2. The Legend of Snorkacki

**Written for Assignment #4 Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Challenges and Assignments.**

 **History of Muggles, task 4a: Write about a journalist.**

 **Extra Credit: Write about a missing civilization - even if it's a myth.**

 **Word Count: 1762**

* * *

Elizabeth Wren stood on the edge of Ottery St Catchpole's streets, shivering in the beginnings of winter. Snow had not yet fallen, but it would soon, if the ever-increasing amount of frost she found each morning was any indication. Nervously, she tucked a short brown curl back behind her ear. It was her first time interviewing for the _Daily Prophet,_ and she dearly hoped her report would make it into Wednesday's paper. She checked her worn leather bag one more time, making sure she had everything she needed. Her fingers brushed over crisp parchment, downy quills, and glass bottles of ink. Perfect. None of it had fallen out. Elizabeth straightened her back, trying to make her short figure seem less so. With one last glance at the town, she stepped into an alleyway, and spun on the spot to Disapparate.

A tall, cylindrical house stood on the hilltop, overgrown with weeds and vines. It had the distinct appearance of having been taken apart and put back together. Elizabeth started up at it, intimidated. She slipped her numb fingers into her pocket and pulled out a scrap of parchment. She gazed at the house, trying to find the address. The numbers were hidden within the leaves, and had grown rusted and weary with time. She looked down at her parchment. The addresses matched. She had found the right house, at least.

She approached the odd house with slow steps, as though afraid stepping in the wrong spot would cause the dirt below her to fall through. But no such hindrance occurred, and she soon stood before sagging stairs leading to the front door. A viny bush that was bare with the oncoming winter leaned against the house, and beneath it a sign read _PLEASE: Keep off the Dirigible Plums._ Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, and it hung in the air around her, a little cloud reminding her to be anxious. She ascended the stairs with light feet; these really did look ready to disintegrate. She raised a fist and knocked.

A moment later, the door opened. The man standing in the doorway had stark white-blonde hair that hung just below his ears, gray eyes that were slightly crossed, and thin lips. He was dressed in bright purple robes that stood out like lightning in a storm.

"Who is it?" he demanded, his voice cutting daggers through the cold air, aimed right at me and stinging.

"Elizabeth Wren, sir. I'm from the _Daily Prophet._ You agreed to an interview, sir."

"Indeed I did. Not that I like the _Prophet._ It's quite the load of rubbish. No, this interview is only to improve it, you know. And for the money. What with the _Quibbler_ temporarily down."

"Y-yes, of course." She shivered in the doorway, cold biting through her jacket, which was much too thin.

"Well, come inside then," he said sharply.

"Thank you," she said, relieved as she stepped into the warm room. She chose a parchment and quill from her bag and began to write.

 _Xenophilius Lovegood ushers me inside his warm home. A fire burns on the far end of a circular room, and windows line the wall, letting in the winter sunlight. A kitchen stands against the wall to my right, and a large pot sits atop the stove. A spiral staircase makes its way up through the center of the room, surrounded by tables and chairs. The tables are covered in parchment, and what I assume to be his inventions. One of them is mannequin head, wearing a contraption that appears to have wings._

"Tea?" he asked, offering up a pot of hot water.

"Thank you, sir." He poured the water into a mug, and it floated with strange herbs she had never seen before. She wondered vaguely if it was safe to drink.

"Well, I suppose we should start," she said, switching her tone from nervous to business in a less-than-amateur move.

"Yes, yes," he said, waving a distracted hand and bringing out his own parchment.

"Mr. Lovegood," she addressed him, quill ready in hand. "This interview is to discuss the -famed- Land of…" she paused, trying to remember the pronunciation. "Snorkacki."

"Ah, yes. Snorkacki. Such a lovely place. Or was, should I say. It's where the Snorkacks lived."

 _I have come here today to discuss the legendary Land of Snorkacki with Mr. Lovegood, who claims to be an expert on the matter. Right from the start, he tells me of the creatures that inhabited it. The Snorkacks, as he calls them._

"The- what?"

"Snorkacks. There were more than just the Crumple-horned, but those ones are all extinct now. The No-horned, of course. They were the rarest, and the first to go. Purple-horned, Spiral-horned, the list goes on. Beautiful creatures."

Elizabeth scribbled fiercely, ducking her head down to the parchment. She wasn't sure what to think of this odd, fictional land, or the odd, fictional creatures that lived within it. All she knew was to do her job, and do so well, should she ever dream of writing headlines.

 _There were once many kinds of Snorkacks, including the Crumple-horned, the only subspecies not extinct. No-horned, Purple-horned, and Spiral-horned are some of the extinct subspecies._

"What other kinds of Snorkacks were there?"

"Stump-horned, Leather-horned, you get the idea. We won't ever know of them all."

"No, sir." Elizabeth ventured a sip of her tea, and regretted it instantly. It was spicy, bitter, and sour all at the same time, a flavour Elizabeth was previously unaware of, and one she wished she would never meet again. Nevertheless, she choked it down, hoping that Mr. Lovegood hadn't noticed. To her dismay, he had, and raised his eyebrows at her: A challenge. Would she admit it was awful, or continue like it had not happened?

"A little too hot for my liking, sir," she amended quickly, and his eyebrows dropped. At the very least, he was pleased with her efforts to be tactful.

"My apologies," he reached out a wand and tapped the mug, and the steam curling from it vanished. Elizabeth prayed he wouldn't realize it if she didn't drink any more. "Now, where were we?"

"The varieties of Snorkacks."

"Why, there's too many to list them all! We better stop here don't you think?"

"I'm only here to help the rest of us understand them, sir."

"Well, then. Why they formed Snorkacki. That's important. They were being hunted for their magic, you see. The horns were used for wands! Of course, none of the wandmakers admit it, but their ancestors are the reasons for the extinctions of all but the Crumple-horned!

"Since they were being hunted, they banded together and made themselves a safe cove, somewhere in Asia, to live. It started with just twenty or so, but more joined and soon there were hundreds. It is believed they built an entire city, had a dialect referred to as Snorkackian, possibly a written language. It was a very sad day indeed when the wandmakers discovered their hiding place. No more than five years after that they all were gone, except the Crumple-horned."

"Oh…" Elizabeth said, trying to find something to say. He seemed to be a very strong believer in Snorkacki, something Elizabeth couldn't say of herself. "And what have Magizoologists said about this?"

"Very few support the theory, and it is so controversial that none would dare mention it in a published work. Newt Scamander, he believed it all. Never said so in his book, of course. Too controversial."

Elizabeth doubted Newt Scamander had ever believed anything so utterly impossible, but just continued writing her notes. After all, she'd have to finish the interview to make the report publishable, and she had a strong feeling Xenophilius Lovegood wouldn't hesitate to throw her out if she questioned him.

"Interesting… What's that you're holding?"

"This," he said, brandishing the parchment he had been clinging to. "Is a map of Snorkacki. Over here on the left we have a the houses, then there's the creek running through the middle…" He pointed at the different places on the map, indicating what went where. Elizabeth took her notes, anxiety mounting as she watched what she thought was a clock tick down the minutes to end of the interview. Her deadline wasn't until later tonight, and she knew she was capable of editing it by then, but it was her first time interviewing. She hoped she was doing well.

* * *

It was with a great sense of relief that Elizabeth left the rook-shaped house just before noon that day, Apparating back to Ottery St. Catchpole. The high sun had chased off the worst of the cold- but it was a battle, and one the sun wouldn't win in the coming winter. Elizabeth spent the rest of the day editing; crossing out words, adding phrases, and doing her best to keep it short. It wasn't supposed to exceed four hundred words, and if it did, it wouldn't even be considered. Thank Merlin for Becca, her faithful no-nonsense editor, who gave her real feedback, without any cushions for harsh words. Becca found hardly anything wrong with the draft, and helped fix what little errors she found.

When Elizabeth was finally ready to turn it in just an hour before her deadline, she felt the panic rising. Surely she had done something wrong, switched two sentences, or left out a paragraph. But she didn't have enough time left, and if she waited any longer, she'd probably chicken out and not even try to get it in on time. There was, after all, a reason she wasn't in Gryffindor. Somehow, she managed to walk from her desk to a bin labeled "Turn in here," and place her precious writing in it. Immediate relief flooded her. Whatever happened to the article now, it was entirely out of her control. If it didn't get into the _Prophet,_ she could always sell it to a small paper, or have it translated for a foreign country.

The next morning, her owl arrived with its paper like it always did. Elizabeth gave it treat before it left, flying off into the coming snow. She idly flipped through the paper, and then stopped. Her story was on page four. She'd just turned it in yesterday. Hardly anyone was able to get into the next _Prophet._ It meant absolutely no double-checking was needed, that her story had been perfect. She set down the newspaper and found a bottle of butterbeer. Her first article for the _Prophet,_ published! It was as good a cause for celebration she'd ever had.


End file.
